


don't wanna leave you lonely

by donttouchmyfeet



Category: Deadpool (Comics), Deadpool - All Media Types, Marvel, Marvel (Comics), Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man/Deadpool - Joe Kelly (Comics)
Genre: 22 and 26 so no funny business, Angst, Christmas, College Student Peter Parker, De-Aged Deadpool, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, I promise there will be a sappy sweet ending, Identity Porn, Identity Reveal, M/M, Peter Parker is driving the hot mess express, Peter Parker's not-subtle size kink, THEY DESERVE IT, Wade Wilson is a precious tiny puppy that must be protected at all costs, accidental holiday fic really, brief suicide mention, cause that is DEFINITELY my thing, is that just my thing now?, lots of silly food based pet names, maybe a tiny bit of angst if you squint, nothing actually happens, with their powers combined they form one barely-functioning human, yet another IKEA reference
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-24
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:54:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27694435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/donttouchmyfeet/pseuds/donttouchmyfeet
Summary: [burglar gently waking me] you live like this?-@ericsshadowDeadpool breaks in to an empty apartment to lay low for a bit. Except oh shit, it's not empty, it's inhabited by a broke-ass college student with an ass that just won't quit and not one single life skill.
Relationships: Peter Parker/Wade Wilson, Spider-Man/Deadpool
Comments: 39
Kudos: 391





	1. October

**Author's Note:**

> So I started writing this summer of last year, and then I got a new job, and then a fucking pandemic hit, and then I broke my foot tripping on a crack in the sidewalk. None of that is actually an excuse because I'm definitely not busy, but let's just pretend it is!
> 
> This is sort of based off that internet story about a robber who broke into a guy's apartment and was so bummed out at the way the guy lived that he ended up getting him some furniture. I have it almost finished, so I'm hoping that posting the first chapter will help me get it done. Also I don't have a beta so I'm not sorry for any mistakes!
> 
> Title taken from Tracy Chapman's "Give Me One Reason," because the angsty 90s females playlist on Spotify is my jam and I think it'd be Wade's, too.

Peter finally, _finally_ made it home just past midnight on Tuesday. He stumbled up the last flight of stairs and unlocked the door, banging it in just the right spot so it would open. Glancing around his tiny studio with a deep sigh, he dropped his camera bag on the floor and went to flop on his bed, which was a plain mattress on the floor with a couple of blankets and a pillow on top. Jameson had been extra terrible today (which was saying a lot) and Peter figured maybe taking a night off to relax at home would be okay. New York could survive one night without Spider-man, and getting yelled at by his boss after living off ramen and canned food for weeks was finally taking its toll.

The broke college student trope had hit Peter hard. Now that he was in his senior year of college, he’d decided to move out of Aunt May’s place. She’d never admit it, but he knew she was getting a little slower as she got older, and Peter just didn’t want to make her life any more difficult. So, two months ago in August, just before the school year began, he’d found a tiny studio apartment that was slightly smaller than a walk-in closet and moved in with his things. His very, very few things, because all Peter had other than clothes was his mattress, a couple of milk crates to sit on, and a single set of dishes. His laptop had been a graduation gift from Aunt May (something she definitely couldn’t afford, but he did desperately need for school), and aside from his camera, was the only thing of value he owned.

Peter bundled himself up in his blankets, not bothering to take off his clothes since he’d need the extra layer for warmth, and curled into a ball. Less than a year left and he’d have his degree and be able to get a real job making real money. He drifted off with that thought in his mind, dreaming of space heaters and warm meals.

*****

Peter’s spider sense woke him before he was fully conscious, so it took him several minutes of laying in bed with his eyes still closed to figure out why he awoke feeling panicked.

There was someone in his apartment.

Now fully awake, Peter leapt out of bed and put his back to the wall. He’d slept with his web shooters on, as he always did, but didn’t want to use them unless he really had to. Squinting around in the darkness, he was suddenly hit with the smell of...pizza?

“Whoa, hey, calm down!” came a voice from the darkness. “I didn’t mean to freak you out, I was trying to be quiet and then I tripped over your stupid crate and almost dropped the pizza and let me tell you, that would be way worse than getting robbed because this is damn good pizza.” The voice sounded familiar. After some shuffling, the stranger managed to turn on the light, and Peter’s jaw dropped.

“Deadpool?”

The man winked and bowed obnoxiously. “Wade Wilson, but your tight little ass can call me Daddy. Ooh, or I can call you Daddy, reverse the trope a bit, people are into that these days.” The red costume really did do a lot to hide bloodstains, Peter realized. Especially considering the very visible smears and puddles of blood on his concrete floor, leading to where the slightly mangled mercenary was standing, a hole in his stomach closing as Peter watched.

Peter continued to gape, mouth opening and closing uselessly like a goldfish, until he finally managed a strangled, “what the fuck?!” and sank to the floor. He’d met Wade--no, Deadpool--several times while out as Spider-man, but it had been awhile since they had run into each other. And he didn’t think Deadpool knew his identity, but the odds of him showing up at his apartment, of all the places in New York...

“Pizza?” Deadpool asked, casually crossing the room and sitting down next to Peter with the box, as if he weren’t breaking and entering. “It’s ham and pineapple, though, because that’s the best kind.” He held out the open box to him. It was real New York pizza, not that chain garbage that was usually open this late, and it was still steaming.

Peter wordlessly took a slice and was halfway through it before he was able to find his voice again. “I’m sorry, and I really appreciate the pizza, but, um. What the hell are you doing here?” He looked over at Deadpool expectantly.

The mercenary sighed, shoving the last bit of crust in his mouth before grabbing another slice and responding. “Okay, listen, kid, I don’t know how old you are--”

“Twenty-two, I’m not a kid,” Peter interrupted.

Deadpool’s eyebrows shot up under the mask. “Well, filing that away for later, four year difference, ain’t weird at all, totally fits the half-your-age-plus-seven rule, we can come back to that.” Peter glared at him. “Sorry, okay, full disclosure since you seem to know who I am so it probably won’t shock you: I broke in here figuring it was empty so I could take a few hours to recover, hang out, maybe snag a little nap,” he said quickly, looking sheepish. “But then,” Deadpool suddenly focused on him intensely, “I realized that this was not an empty apartment, like I’d first thought, and was actually a shithole occupied by a shivering kid with no furniture and not a single thing in his fridge. Not even like, ketchup or olives or, god forbid, fucking Miracle Whip!” He pointed at Peter accusingly with his pizza slice, accidentally flinging a bit of ham in the process. “So I figured I’d go grab a pizza to share, you look like you could use the food, and here we are.”

Peter went back to staring at him, half-chewed bite of pizza hanging out of his open mouth as he absently reached up to pick the flying piece of ham from his hair. “I don’t understand.”

“Listen, my sweet little steamed dumpling," Wade said gently, “this is no way to live. You have to try to take better care of yourself.”

The younger man blinked at him, torn between feeling angry, embarrassed, and weirdly touched. He finally decided to go with bitterness for his response. “You’re so right,” he deadpanned. “I should have been spending my wads of cash on real furniture and produce, I don’t know why I’m just hoarding it under the floorboards.”

The whites of Deadpool’s mask widened comically. “No, no, I get it, it’s not your fault! I just wanted to help, you know, and that doesn’t really happen all the time with me but I’m trying to be a better person so I figure, hey, let me take advantage of the feeling when it strikes.” He stood up and brushed his pants off, though it didn’t do any good considering he was still covered in blood. “Keep the rest of the pizza. And sorry about the blood, I promise I’ll come back to clean it!” The merc bounded out of Peter’s open window before he could say anything.

Peter looked at the window forlornly. “What do you mean, 'come back'?”

*****

Perched high up on a twenty-story building, Peter was trying not to scarf down his hot dog too quickly. He hadn't planned to be on patrol, but when he saw the food cart vendor being robbed, he ducked away to change into his suit before wrapping the burglar up tightly in webs. The vendor had offered him a “dog with the works, on the house” and Peter, starving as always, wasn’t going to argue with him.

Then he heard the unmistakable sound of a wolf-whistle behind him, along with the clanging of someone climbing off the fire escape. “Ooooh, baby, Spidey, I didn’t know you liked big weiners!”

“Deadpool.” Peter rolled his eyes beneath the mask as he jammed the rest of his food in his mouth and pulled his mask back down. “Don’t you have anything better to do?”

The merc threw himself down noisily next to the superhero. “What’s better than watching my most favorite bug boy eat phallic foods? Can I watch you eat a banana next time? I’ll buy,” he grinned and waggled his eyebrows beneath the mask.

Peter began to stand up, brushing himself off. “Please, I wouldn’t get out of bed for anything less than a Rocket Pop. I have things to do, DP.”

“Wait!” Peter paused as Deadpool grabbed his arm. “Then I won’t get to tell you about my latest good deed!”

“Oh?” He sat back down, unable to help his curiosity. As much as Wade sometimes got on his nerves, he always liked to hear about his forays into heroism. Peter liked to think that getting praise from Spider-man would encourage Deadpool to continue to do good; he knew that deep down, Deadpool had it in him to be a real hero.

“Oh, yes,” Wade leaned back on his elbows, sighing dreamily. “I met the cutest little twunk in the history of cute little twunks last week, when I broke into his apartment and accidentally bled everywhere.”

Peter tried to keep his face neutral, despite his cheeks burning under his mask. “That doesn’t really sound like you helped him, dude.” In fairness, Deadpool had kept his word. Coming home from classes the day after the pizza incident, Peter had arrived to a spotlessly clean apartment and a single, gigantic red velvet cupcake with the words “SRY 4 DA BLOOD” scrawled on it in black icing. He wouldn’t ever admit it, but he got a fuzzy, warm feeling in his chest when he ate it later, sitting on his mattress.

Only because it was a really good cupcake, of course.

Deadpool flapped his hand dismissively. “Whatever, I cleaned it up and everything. No, I’m talking about my good deed _today_. I bought that doe-eyed chocolate-covered creampuff a dining table!”

Peter could have sworn his heart stopped for a moment. “You did what??”

“No, listen, Webs,” the other man rolled on his side earnestly, head resting on his hand. “This perfectly-toasted cinnamon brown sugar pop-tart was living in the most empty, pathetic walk-in closet I’ve ever seen. And I’ve hidden in a lot of closets, mostly for murder reasons.” Deadpool didn’t seem to notice that Peter was having trouble not losing his shit as he looked past him, eyes unfocused while he continued, voice dreamy. “He had two milk crates as furniture, and dat ass needs to be properly supported if it’s going to maintain its perfect shape. I'm gonna bounce so many quarters off that piece.”

“I--you can’t just buy people stuff like that, Deadpool!” Peter scolded a little too loudly. “That’s like...that’s an invasion of privacy!” Truth to be told, if this were just some random person Deadpool had bought furniture for, he’d be really proud of him for doing something so nice, albeit perhaps with a lecture on respecting others' space. But Peter was a super hero, and super heroes didn't need charity, even if they did really need dining tables.

Deadpool sat up, looking slightly crestfallen. “I don’t understand, Spidey. I thought this would be a good thing!”

“It is,” Peter backtracked hurriedly. “But uh...sometimes people don’t like accepting free things, they see it as pity.” And by people, he meant himself. “It was a nice gesture though. Just, maybe leave him alone for a while. Let him have some space,” he said, hoping his suggestion would work. The less time he spent around Wade Wilson as Peter Parker, the better. 

Wade nodded thoughtfully. “Okay, I won’t bother him. See ya around, Webs.” 

*****

“Honey, I’m home!”

Peter had to stop himself from jumping up to the ceiling at the voice, which was followed by a large figure climbing in through his window. “Deadpool?” The merc somersaulted in, standing upright at the end like a gymnast.

A gymnast who was holding...grocery bags? Reusable ones, nonetheless.

“I brought dinner!” Deadpool sang, sashaying his way to the tiny kitchenette. “Well, I brought things to make dinner. Hope you like pasta! Of course you do, everyone likes pasta. You really should lock that window, by the way, you don't want random lunatics strolling in at all hours of the day." He continued rambling about safety, completely ignoring Peter, as he puttered about the tiny kitchenette.

Peter continued to sit (at his brand new bistro dining table, which he would never admit that he really loved) with his hands hovering over his keyboard, research paper forgotten. “Um, what?” He spared a moment to thank himself for bothering to shove his suit under the mattress before starting schoolwork. “Deadpool, it’s like, 11pm.”

“You know,” Wade paused his wiping of a brand new pot, and did he buy that just to bring over? “I hear the Spanish often don’t eat until midnight.”

“You learned that from the Office,” Peter said, exasperated. “And I don’t think Jan Levinson is the best person to get information from, anyway.” He stood up under the guise of going to tell Wade to leave, but he had started dumping things in a smaller, also brand new pot, and it was starting to smell fantastic. “Are you...making the pasta sauce? From scratch?”

Deadpool put his hand to his forehead with a sigh. “Listen, kid--”

“I’m twenty-two!” Peter snapped. “And it’s Peter!”

The merc interrupted his own train of thought to pause and look up at the cobwebbed ceiling. “Hmmm...Peter, Petey, Peter Rabbit, Peter Piper, Peter Piper picked a peck of--”

“Deadpool!”

The man visibly shook himself after hearing his name. “Right, sorry, Petey-sweetie, I was teaching you an important life lesson.” Peter snorted. Wade raised his head loftily. “Red sauce is the easiest thing you can make and it is healthy and life-changing and you won’t ever want to go back to that absolutely awful stuff in a jar, not that you even had a jar of it in the fridge. So yes, I’m making the sauce.” He turned around, grabbing a wooden spoon (how many cooking utensils did he buy??) and smashing down tomatoes in the pot. “The trick is to buy whole peeled tomatoes. I’d say San Marzano, but judging by the general state of your life, I don’t think you know what that means, so go ahead and get the generic, it’ll still do the trick.”

Peter blinked. The sight of Deadpool, revered mercenary, reformed killer, standing at his stove with an apron that said “Oh, Crȇpe” (which he had clearly also brought over) and adding fresh herbs to homemade tomato sauce was absurd. He leaned against the wall with a frown.

“Deadpool...what is this?”

Wade looked at him, concerned. “Are you okay? I’ve said I’m making dinner like three times now--”

“No,” Peter cut in quickly. “What are you doing? I mean, why are you here?” He pushed himself off the wall and closer to the taller man. “I don’t get it.”

“I just,” Deadpool let out a huff through the mask as the spoon clattered back into the pot. “I just wanted to be friends," he said in a small voice, back to Peter as he began grating the block of Parmesan he’d brought (not the stuff in the green can, even! Real Parmesan!). “I guess I forgot to ask if that’s what you wanted. Spidey’s always telling me about boundary issues, but I figured that was mostly because I keep touching his butt. I'm not great at reading people.” Wade paused, the only sound the quiet *scrape scrape* of the cheese grater until he said, so softly Peter wasn't sure if he was supposed to hear it, "I guess you just looked like you could use a friend."

That quiet, uncertain voice coming from the imposing mercenary went straight to Peter's heart. "Oh, no,” he moved closer to Wade, who was still hyper-focused on grating cheese into what was now a rather aggressively large pile. “I didn’t mean to make it sound like I didn’t want to be friends. I guess, I dunno. I feel bad, this is a pretty one-sided relationship. I’m not really giving you anything in return, and you’re just like, showering me in gifts and delicious meals.” Peter slowly raised his hand, telegraphing his movements so that Wade would be able to see them out of his periphery, and touched the mercenary’s arm. “It's nice having you here," he admitted.

And that was true. Peter hadn’t realized how lonely he had been in his sad little apartment. When he lived with Aunt May, he’d always had someone to come home to, or to vent to, or to just talk to about nothing at all. Her home was always filled with the smells of cooking and chatter from the radio, which was always set to NPR, her favorite. Since moving out, his life had become more quiet and dull, and he’d just been going through the motions of existing in the new space in between his busy life as a student, photographer, and superhero. But now, in only two visits, Deadpool had brought noise, and laughter, and life back to his apartment. Peter hadn't realized how much he'd missed having that.

Wade, who was now almost at the point of grating his fingers, was still quiet. He was silent for so long that Peter began to panic. Had he messed up by touching him? Peter quickly pulled his hand back to his side.

“Wade?”

The other man whirled around as if in shock, and Peter suddenly realized that, in or out of costume, he’d never used the merc’s real name before. The other man was completely still, whites of his mask wide as he gazed in wonderment at Peter.

“W--Deadpool, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. Sorry,” Peter said sheepishly, shoving his hands in his pockets. He really wanted to feel those (un?)surprisingly hard forearms again and didn’t trust himself not to get grabby.

The mercenary shook his head slightly and blinked at him. “No, no, Wade is fine! I guess I’m just not used to people…” he trailed off, eyes becoming slightly unfocused again. “I mean, people don’t usually want me--oh, shit, the sauce!” Wade whipped around to stir the rapidly bubbling red sauce before it spilled over. He stood more upright, stranger-than-usual behavior seemingly passed. “Now, listen up, chocolate puddin’ cup, I’m going to need you to start pulling your weight, here, go fill this with water…”

Peter smiled to himself as Wade ordered him around the kitchen. And if he brushed up against his muscled arms again, well...nobody needed to know it wasn’t an accident.


	2. November

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your LOVELY gumdrop-sweet comments, I promise I will crawl out of my hole to respond individually. I'm sorry this took so long but I'm maybe more sorry for the ending...it got a little more angsty than expected. I promise there will be a happy fluffy disgusting sugar cookie finish!!!
> 
> Also, CW for brief suicide mention--no ideation or follow-through. It's really, really quick.

Within a month, Wade had begun coming over at least three times a week. He usually brought over groceries (although he’d gotten pizza again a few times and once shelled out for what was at least 40 tacos) and they cooked together, sometimes settling in to watch Star Trek reruns or play Mario Kart on Peter’s old N-64 that he had grabbed from his aunt's house during his last visit. They somehow even ended up spending Halloween together, intercepting criminals taking advantage of the festivities and stopping to take pictures with kids. Peter maybe swooned a little when, after scaring off some older bullies, Wade gently accepted a feathered pink crown from the tiny rescued princess and proceeded to wear it proudly all night.

(So Deadpool was good with kids. This was absolutely fine and not at all so fucking cute that Peter had to scream into his pillow about it when he finally got home later. He's _fine_.)

Despite Peter's arguments, Wade had brought over a television, coffee table, rug, and a couch. He'd assured Peter that he got them for free, but the younger man could have sworn he caught the other using a Bowie knife to cut off IKEA tags at least once.

Peter felt terrible accepting the gifts, but he struggled to fight Wade about it. The once-renowned violent mercenary had given him the saddest puppy eyes, somehow making it work through the mask, when he tried to refuse the couch.

"But Petey, what if I need a place to crash again?" He actually sniffled, shameless as he scuffed the floor with his boots. "Would you turn a wee baby anti-hero out on the cold streets while his kneecaps knit back together? Would you be so cruel to a perfectly innocent lil mostly-ex-mercenary who's lost both arms to a wood chipper? Would you derail the author from moving this story progress past this long-ass apartment set-up phase, my darling brown butter pecan shortbread with a dusting of cinnamon sugar?" 

Peter ignored the funny feeling in his chest that bloomed at the use of the silly pet name. "Ugh, you know I wouldn't leave you outside, pumpkin pie," he grinned weakly, trying to joke back. "You can always come here. Especially if you're gonna bring stuff for fajitas again."

"Fajitas are the way through to that stone-cold heart, eh?" Wade lit up immediately, moving closer to Peter with a grin and reaching out to grasp his shoulder. "Don't you worry, we'll get you properly nourished in no time," he said seriously. "Gotta take care of that beautiful booty, my sweet cherry clafoutis."

Peter groaned, shrugging away from his hold while Wade cackled. "Ugh, I'd rather waste away." He pretended to be annoyed as Wade turned away to start gathering ingredients from the fridge. "You're the worst!" The younger man grumbled, pulling up a chair at the nearby table to watch the other work.

_Also wow your hands are really big and warm and holy shit do you have to bend over to get to the crisper because honestly your ass definitely has nothing on mine and the things I would DO--_

"Pete? You still with me?" Peter was snapped out of his increasingly inappropriate thoughts by Wade waving a (fuck, _large_ ) hand in front of his face. "I got you a beer." The merc set the bottle in front of him, careful to use a coaster, before turning back to the stove.

 _Oh, I'm so fucked,_ Peter thought, and drained the whole beer in one gulp.

*****

As Thanksgiving drew closer, Peter found himself swinging around uptown more and more often, keeping his lenses peeled for a certain red-clad nuisance. Wade had disappeared soon after fajita night on a job, and had gone totally radio silent.

"I swear it's kosher, just some security business," he'd assured Spider-man before leaving. As for Peter, he had planted a sickeningly loud and wet kiss through his mask on the other's cheek and told him there was a homemade lasagne in the freezer ready to bake when he was hungry. "See ya soon, my sweet coconut macaroon!" he'd called, vaulting backwards out of Peter's window as the younger man watched forlornly, touching the still-warm spot on his cheek.

He was definitely just imagining that spot still burning as he cut through the treetops of Central Park. Wade had been gone for a little over two weeks now, and while he didn't say how long he'd be gone, he'd given the impression that it was a quick job. Peter had written and deleted several messages before deciding that _I miss you so much it makes my chest feel funny and I kind of like it, what’s that about?_ was too much for a text, and it would be better to not be a needy bitch (MJ's words, not his) and just wait for Wade's return.

It was nearing midnight, and Peter was ready to give up on his search and head home, when he heard a sound that made him faceplant straight into a skyscraper.

"Baby, I got your number, oh, and I know that you've got mine," came Wade's gravelly voice from the other side of the block. Ignoring the throbbing in his nose, Peter hastily webbed himself up to the roof, where the mercenary was shaking hot sauce onto a taco. "But you know that I called you, yeah, I called too many times," Wade sang mournfully before he stuffed the whole taco in his mouth.

"WADE!" Peter zipped right to him with his webs, throwing his arms around the larger man. "Where have you been?"

Deadpool stopped mid-chew, mouth wide open as he stared at Peter. He was still for so long that a chunk of half-eaten chicken fell straight into his lap. It was gross, but Peter was too happy to care, still holding onto the mercenary.

"Uh, hey, Spidey," Wade managed, finally swallowing and not breaking his gaze. "I missed you too, but I gotta be honest, I didn't expect this kind of welcome from _you_." He rummaged around in the bag next to him, handing over several foil packages. "Chicken tinga, extra cilantro."

Peter gratefully accepted the warm bundle. He'd gone through the leftovers Wade had kept for him quickly, and had to fend for himself the last week or so. Suffice to say that the mercenary's exquisite cooking skills had not rubbed off on him in the slightest. "Thanks, Wade."

He was so excited about the food that he almost didn't notice the other man freezing yet again. "Okay, did I miss something?" Deadpool turned to Peter, brow furrowed beneath the mask. "You just called me 'Wade' twice, after literally never doing it before. Did we have some cutesy bonding montage? Did we do the bed-sharing trope? I'm gonna be so mad if we did and I forgot! Did I lose time again? That happens sometimes when the ol' brain bag eats a bullet or fifteen."

" _Fifteen bullets???_ " Peter accidentally sprayed a mouthful of spicy chicken all over his friend's face. Maybe eating just wasn't their thing today. "What the fuck, I thought you said it was an easy job!" He went to bat at the mercenary's face haphazardly with a fistful of napkins. "Holy shit, Wade, did you _die_?"

"There it is again!" Wade pointed at him with an accusatory flourish. "And the fuck-bomb! What on earth has gotten into you, young Spider?"

"I'm twenty-two," Peter retorted immediately. "How many times do I have to tell you that? And don't change the subject!"

Wade shook his head, as if trying to clear water from it. "Okay, I'm definitely losing it again, I swear you've never told me that." He pulled one of his pistols from its holster. "Time to do a factory reset!"

"No! Oh my God, what the fuck, dude!" Peter yelled, immediately webbing the gun away. "Sorry," he panted, blood pumping from the adrenaline of the last few minutes. " I, uh, I feel like I tell people all the time because they think I'm young, I probably just got it mixed up," he said quickly. "But seriously, did you die?" 

"But did you die, though?" Deadpool actually giggled. "Duh, Webhead. I die at least like once a month. Sometimes twice! It's a lot harder when you actually fight people instead of just slicing their heads off," he shrugged thoughtfully, gun forgotten as he grabbed another taco. "Anyway, that's why I wasn't back sooner. Had to spend some time in my apartment, you know, knitting the femurs back together and tryna get them synapses firing right. The head injuries take a bit," he explained through a mouthful of food, tapping his temple knowingly.

There was silence as the younger man processed this information. "Wade, are you...are you saying you were alone, going through all that?" Peter asked softly. The mercenary was turning over a new leaf, to be sure, and the hero had known he'd been paying more in injuries for it. He just hadn't stopped to think exactly how much. "I'm sorry. You could have called, I would have been there."

The other man glanced at him quizzically. "Why? No offense, Webs, but I figured you wouldn't want to be around for all that. I'm definitely more annoying with a traumatic brain injury," he joked. When Peter remained somber, Deadpool sighed. "Listen, it's fine. It happens all the time. I just didn't figure you for that kind of friend, and, well, the one friend I do have probably wouldn't be too jazzed to be around all that," he waved a hand airily. "Let's be honest, he sticks around for the food and the razor-sharp wit, he doesn't want the shitty baggage stuff." Wade stood up, brushing himself off and picking up the bag of now-empty foil wrappers. "Anyway, g2g, Spidey-babe, still got some stuff to get together. TTYL and LYLAS and HAGS and all that!" He waved before quickly disappearing down the fire escape.

Peter felt like he'd taken a katana to the gut and twisted it around. "It's not even summer," he whispered miserably, and let himself fall flat on the roof to look at the sky, where he stayed until dawn.

*****

"So, Wade," Peter turned to the other man after the credits began rolling on _The Empire Strikes Back_. They were full of homemade pad Thai and whiskey, Peter sitting sideways on the couch with his feet pressed against Wade's ( _warm, rock hard, get a grip, Parker_ ) thighs. One of the mercenary's hands, glove gone, was resting on Peter's ankle, scarred thumb absently rubbing the sliver of skin peeking above his sock. It was now or never. "Do you have any Thanksgiving plans?"

Wade stiffened minutely, eyes not leaving the screen. "Oh, you know, the usual. Might crash in on the Avengers shindig, get kicked out, then go bother Logan until I get stabbed or he gets shot. Tradition and all."

Peter pretended not to notice that the other man had removed his hand. "Well, if you want," he began, trying for casual, "my aunt and I are doing dinner together. Nothing big, just us, but we usually spend the day cooking and playing board games and eating until we collapse to watch the first Christmas movie of the season." He tried desperately to make eye contact, but Wade's masked face was still determinedly facing the screen. "If you want--I mean, I really want--it would be great if you joined," he finished blandly.

"Wade?" he tried softly, when the credits had finished and the other man still hadn't moved.

"Oh!" The larger man jumped suddenly, voice strained. "Nope, no thanks, I'm good, I have a lot going on! You know, business," he waved his hands airily and giggled, high-pitched and forced, before standing quickly and grabbing the empty glasses from the coffee table. "Better get going, it's late and all." The mercenary kept his broad back to the younger man, making a show of washing the glasses in the sink.

Peter made his way to the kitchen, intentionally stepping loudly so as not to startle him. "Wade," he murmured softly, "I mean it. We'd both love to have you there. I've told Aunt May all about you, she really wants to meet you."

Wade whipped around with a force that pushed the smaller man back. "Oh you told her, did you?" he sneered, voice hard. "Warned her about the lonely freak stalking you? Pity he has no friends, better invite him so he doesn't go off on a murder spree!" He stalked forward, crowding Peter's back against the table. Peter's spider sense, normally so quiet around the other man, was screaming at him to flee. Wade Wilson was gone. This was Deadpool.

"Wade, no," he forced himself to stay calm and keep his posture casual. "How could you say that? You're my friend, I want you around! I like being with you. I missed you when you disappeared," he pushed back into the merc's space, their noses mere inches apart.

Deadpool's mask barely moved. Peter would have missed it without his enhanced hearing. It was barely a whisper.

"Then why didn't you call?"

"I wanted to," Peter murmured, looking down to avoid the other's masked gaze. "But I didn't want to bother you. If I had known, I would have hit send." He looked back up, reaching up slowly to telegraph his movement as he gently laid a hand on the other's cheek. "I'm sorry. Please come to Thanksgiving."

Wade closed his eyes. Peter may have imagined him leaning into the touch before pulling away abruptly, expression hardening. "I'm not going to some old lady's house so she can play pity the freak, Peter," he snapped. "Just...drop it." Wade turned toward the window, ready to leave.

"Wait, please," Peter grabbed his arm. "It's not like that. I just thought instead of being alone, you could--" he hesitated, before forcing himself to say the next words. "You could come be somewhere where you're wanted."

Deadpool let out a laugh that sounded horribly like a cry of pain, wrenching his arm away. "Wanted? Nobody has ever wanted _this_ ," he snarled, and reached up to pull his mask off in one fluid motion.

Peter stared, completely frozen. He'd seen, of course, slivers and patches of Wade's skin, his mouth and chin when eating, his hands when cooking, but he hadn't pictured the rest. It hadn't mattered to Peter, but he'd forgotten that maybe it mattered to Wade.

"Yeah, I thought so," Wade muttered, turning again to go.

Shaken out of his stupor, Peter realized far too late that he wasn't fixated because of the scars, but to drink in what he'd wanted to see for so long. He had never been given the privilege of seeing Wade’s face, as Peter or Spider-man, and he hated that it happened like this, like it didn’t matter. Instead of articulating that, though, "your eyes!" he blurted. "They're blue!"

Wade stopped, one foot out of the window, back still turned, and waited.

"And--and--" Peter cast around wildly before word vomiting the first thought in his head that might get the other man to stay. "I think I might like you. I mean, like-like you. Romantic styleZ with a capital Z. Maybe." He mentally slapped himself. _Real smooth, Parker._

Wade's head bowed minutely, still facing away. "I'm sorry, Peter," he murmured at last, pulling the rest of his body through the window. "I don't know if I have any more to give you." The mercenary disappeared into the darkness outside.

Peter slumped to the floor next to his bed, reaching for his comforter and wrapping it around himself as he lay on the concrete. "Of course he's gonna run if you say 'romantic styleZ,' you idiot," he cursed himself, curling into a ball. He stared forlornly at the credits still rolling on the TV, watching blankly until they finished and _Return of the Jedi_ was halfway over before pushing himself upright with a sigh. "I guess it's time for me to give something back."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I SAID SORRY


End file.
